Watching
by chrysalis escapist
Summary: a different point of view solving a case, is science all they can listen to? Stella&Mac, Flack&Angell, DL, Sid ...
1. Where we are

**Disclaimer: surprise, surprise, I still don't own any of them…**

**Apart from the 1****st**** person POV this one here has nothing to do with lily moonlight's story of the same title; still I recommend that you read her piece as well because it is really great!**

**Feel free to let me know what you think of this. As usual, all comments are welcome.**

Watching – Where we are

I sit on a couch, next to my mother. It's not as comfortable as the couch we have at home but I have a feeling it is one of the most comfortable places in this building. I look at the woman opposite us. She has expressed her sympathy, trying to fill hollow words with meaning, expressing it more through the tone of her voice.

My mother has her hand on mine but somehow I think she doesn't really feel the touch. In her grief she has lost her sense of my presence. She's choking on her tears. I try to reach her but she doesn't react.

I look at the other woman, study her face. I tangle my glance in her curls, try to follow their curves. The directions they take are as unpredictable as life, never quite the same as just a moment before. I see inside of her. She tries to build a wall against the grief she sees before her. She tries to be as objective as her job requires, having to ask unpleasant questions, having to be always suspicious.

I look down at the leather of the couch; follow the lines running through it. Irregularities of a living being. Cracks and scratches added by other living beings. People have sat here before us; people will sit here after us. I'm wondering again, who they have been, who they will be.

I remember sneaking out of our house in the middle of the night, following our cat as it crawled through hedges and played with the moonlight. I remember the smell of darkness and silence, the sound of rotting leaves under my bare feet. I remember a dead bird, feathers still attached to the hollow bones of its wings, fragments of skin sunken between its ribs, a cavity gaping underneath, where its heart had been.

I look at a little gathering of dust hiding just by the leg of the coffee-table. Ashes to ashes. I zoom into it, imagine electrons whizzing around a nucleus. Atoms are always alive, even inside a dead body, I think. They are as alive in this small pile of dust as they are inside of me, inside of my mother and inside of the woman opposite us.

I look at different dust, one dancing through the air. Catching sunlight, losing it again, catching, and losing... days and nights. I remember the time when we were still all together. I have always known that life can not last forever, well, almost always.

I think I was four when a girl from the neighborhood tied a ribbon around my wrist while I made a wish. She said that if I wore the ribbon until it fell off the wish would come true. I had wished to live forever.

That night I had a dream, or maybe something else. Just silvery grey everywhere, myself somewhere in there, floating. No words were spoken, but I knew, it just sunk into my soul. The same night I stood in our shed, begging my father in tears to cut the ribbon. I knew it couldn't be.

Still, I wish life could last a little bit longer. A hard sob rips my attention back to my mother. I see lines on her face that weren't there a week ago, gapping, creating a distance between us. Grief distorting her face almost beyond recognition. I have to look away again. I try to catch the green eyes of the woman talking to my mother, or trying to talk, rather.

She talks of the wounds they have found on the body, explains what they indicate. She asks my mother for any indications of problems beforehand, anything that could point to the who or the why, but the only answer she gets is that it can not be.

I send her a thought. I think she looks at me for a moment, but maybe she only had to look away from my mother, just like me. She looks away from both of us. I see how her eyes change focus. I know she's not looking out of the window although her eyes are aiming in that direction. Maybe she watches the dust, just like me.

Another cry of pain escapes my mother. We both look at her. She says it again, that it can not be, it is the only thing she knows. The woman nods, she will not probe any further. She will get back to her job; analyze the facts that are not influenced by feelings. She's determined to find out what happened.

She gets up, signaling that she has no more questions to ask, that she wishes to be the one to provide the answers next time. My mother struggles to her feet, she can not stop shaking. The woman's hand reaches for my mother's arm, another touch not felt. At the door we part. I look at her, hesitate for a moment.


	2. What I am

**Thanks for the kind reviews I got so far and the e****ncouragement to continue this. Feel free to add more, I love to know what my readers think!**

Watching – What I am

Watching, that's what I've always done. Ever since I remember, maybe even before. Standing there, leaning against a wall, hanging on the edge of things, watching what the others do. So it's what I intend to do now. I slip through the door just before it closes.

I see the woman walking down a corridor. I let my watching eyes follow her. I'm amazed by the way she moves, elegant and purposefully. I think she could have been a dancer; maybe she was one in the past.

She enters a man's office. Looks like he's the boss. The door closes behind her before I have caught up, so I stay outside. I can hear them talk through the glass. I run one finger over it. Cold, and yet so smooth it somehow feels warm. Almost liquid, as if I could run my finger through it.

"I just talked to Mrs. Starr." the woman says, "Unfortunately she couldn't tell us anything. She is still too shocked, I think."

He concurs with a nod, "Not surprisingly. Are Danny and Lindsay on the scene?"

"Of course." she smiles.

I think he realizes that he needn't have asked; there's something in the way he smiles back at her. There is something about them anyway, she doesn't really treat him like he's the boss, and he doesn't behave like a superior towards her either. I like that; I remember how much I had hated the way my father had been treated by his former boss.

I almost missed her next words. "Mrs. Starr has agreed to let us have a look at Coralie's room, so I'll take care of that."

I like how she says my name; most people just call me Cory, or used to call me Cory, as I should probably say now.

"Keep me posted." he says, adding with a wink in his voice, "I know, 'of course'." before she can say anything.

They smile at each other again before she leaves. I step away from the door as she opens it, I don't really want to try yet if it's true that ghosts can pass through things. I don't really want to know how it feels either, if it's true.

I look at him; see how his eyes follow her. I think he's a bit of a watcher too, like me. And he cares for her; it doesn't take a lot of watching to see that. I smile too as I follow her, entering the elevator that has just opened its doors for her.

I watch as she fingers the folder she's been carrying all the time. The smile that had brightened her face like a bit of sunshine is gone. She looks as melancholy as branches in the night, stretching towards the sky, longing for a bit of moonlight to pull them up. The smiles had been genuine, I know that, but the clouds are back.

I feel sad too because I'm guessing I'm one of those clouds. I wonder if I shouldn't be sinking through the floor of the elevator, even as it is moving down. Maybe it's not true that ghosts can pass through things. At least it doesn't seem to be a matter of one's mood.

She arrives at her destination. I follow her down another corridor and through a double door swinging shut behind us. I can't help but turn around and look at them as their flapping decreases quickly. They seem to create a breeze ready to blow me away. But I stay.

"Stella. What can I do for you?" I hear someone say, a slight scratch in the voice, but it sounds friendly.

I turn around again to have a look at the man who has just given me her name. Grey hair around a face furrowed by the time it has seen pass, the deepest lines though caused by a smile, a smile she returns.

"Hey Sid," she says and now I know his name too, "have you got the results for Coralie Starr ready yet?"

He nods, un-clicking his glasses and letting them hang around his neck. I move closer to inspect them, what an interesting gadget! A body on the table between us reminds me of where we are. It's not my body, that of an older man. I wonder where his soul is.

"She was very young, wasn't she." he says as he picks up a sheet from a smaller table behind him.

"Yeah, she would have been thirteen next month." Her voice sounds darker again.

"And she looks even younger; she was very small for her age."

Now that he mentions it I realize that I've been at eye level with them all of the time. Maybe that explains why I don't sink through the floor, I'm floating. I look down at my feet. They seem to be touching the ground. Strange. But then, what isn't strange about being dead and still being here? I don't see anybody else like me, and where would be a better place to see someone in the same situation than in a morgue?

"Almost all the injuries I found are in keeping with having fallen from a great height. Estimating from the severity of her injuries and her weight I'd say tenth floor, plus minus two floors depending on the wind." His voice sounds strangely warm compared to the cold facts he talks about.

She nods. "I'll tell Danny and Lindsay where to start looking for the primary crime scene. What about…"

He interrupts her, obviously knowing what she's about to ask, "The cuts on her wrists you already mentioned in your preliminary report were caused by glass, most likely from a broken bottle. Found a tiny shard of it stuck in her left wrist, that's now being analyzed by Adam. Also," he adds with a deep sigh, "her level of blood alcohol was quite elevated. You might not exactly be looking for a crime scene."

"You mean… suicide?" I feel tentacles of black wrap around me as she asks that.

No, no, no. I didn't. I'm sure I didn't.

"I'm afraid everything I found points in that direction." Suddenly his voice sounds like fog to me, grey moisture swathing me, "I double-checked, no signs of defense wounds."

No, no! I find myself quoting my mother, it can't be. I become aware I'm hovering inches away from her eyes, shining black now; I can barely see their green. Please, please keep looking. How can I make her hear me? _Stella, _I try calling her name into her soul.

Her eyebrows grow together in a frown, hanging on the edge of her forehead like a condor's spread wings. "Any chance the defense wounds have been covered up by all the other injuries she suffered?"

"All of them? If the murderer was…"

She doesn't let him finish, "How capable would she have been to defend herself anyway?"

I find myself able to turn away from her and look at him again. He seems to feel relieved too, a weight lifted from the corners of his mouth they curl up again.

"That's a good point. I'm sure you'll find out."

I hope she will.


	3. What it means

**Again, thanks for the lovely reviews and to those who chose this as a favorite. Also thanks if you have this on alert or are generally reading through and have reached this chapter. It feels good to know that some of you are enjoying this****.**

Watching – What it means

I look at Sid. His pupils shining so black. Keen, and sharp. Yet soft. I think it depends on who he looks at, or who he thinks of. Now, falling on Stella, they are definitely soft. Nonetheless keenly looking into her. I wonder if, spending so much time with 'us', he has learned to see inside. I blink. A reflex to what I saw inside of him. He has been there and - I look at her - they have touched.

Not the way he touches her now, a reassuring hand resting on her upper arm. But the same soul is in this touch. Her eyes hold him, nodding her thanks and goodbyes.

Another sheet has been added to 'my' folder, and pictures, many pictures. Another ride on the elevator, upwards again. Could be that our moods are rising too. I have the feeling that Stella doesn't want to believe I could have committed suicide, and that makes me feel better. Inside of her I see hope.

We leave the elevator. She takes out her cell and makes a call.

"Hey Danny," she says when it's answered.

I can hear him reply, a voice full of energy, as if the words could explode any second.

"I got some information from Sid that might be of interest, concerning the possible location of the primary crime-scene."

"Uh-huh, hey, Montana!" I hear him say just before turning away from his cell and thus being lost to our hearing.

Montana? Montana, Helena? Does he …? No, I remember, they said Danny and _Lindsay _are on the scene. I grin at the memory this has unlocked for me. No, he can't possibly know of my very first attempt at writing a story.

Sending fifty children, all with the names of states and their capitals, to grow up in outer space …. One of the most stupid ideas I've ever had, and probably a good thing I never finished it. But it did help to learn all those names, if nothing else.

Stella's voice alerts me that their conversation continues. She tells them what Sid has told her, adding some thoughts of her own what else they might be looking for. A broken bottle, blood, … hope.

I realize we have walked along another corridor, reached a room. A light space, sun beaming through high windows, landing on a series of tables. She picks one of the lower ones, relieves herself of the weight of the folder. Another shadow falls.

She sits down, spreading the contents of the folder on the table before her. She looks at the sheet Sid has given her, and at the pictures. Again and again. Pulling one closer, pushing another one back. Eyes resting on the smallest details. Darkening as she draws conclusions. Tired, rubbing her hands over her face. Elbows resting on the table, chin resting on her fisted hands.

A hand is placed on her shoulder. She's not surprised. She must have felt him coming.

"Mac," she says with a smile, running through her like a glimmer of gold.

Behind her, he's smiling too, so it must be him.

"What do you think?" he asks, eyes quickly taking in the pictures and the way she has placed them.

"She didn't fight gravity." Neither do her words.

"And all this …" His finger circles over the pictures.

"… points to suicide." she finishes the sentence for him.

_No!_

"But you don't think it was."

I snap to his eyes, their color still wrapping around me. Did he just … hear me?

"Somehow, no. Something about this … just can't be …" Did she hear me? "… just doesn't seem right." She sighs.

"The evidence …" he begins.

"… doesn't lie, I know. But what if I'm right? What if we just can't prove it because we can't find all the evidence?" Muscles tighten in her shoulders, in her neck.

"You'll keep looking."

He rubs his hands over her shoulders, down along the space between them and up again, fingers separating curls. I can sense her shift, relaxing under his touch. It feels like warm sand under my bare feet. Golden grains shifting to fit my footprints perfectly.

"I wonder why she didn't fight gravity." Stella muses, "She was conscious, but even if we found evidence that somebody pushed her that someone could claim that she wanted to die, because of that."

Yeah, why didn't I fight gravity? Had I thought it would make any difference I might have. I think back, what had I thought? 'Oh sh…' Yeah, I know, a great choice for my most likely last words, but you try thinking of something enlightened in such a moment.

But then …, I don't know … I guess I realized there was nothing I could do. So – I _did_ nothing. I suppose I thought I was dreaming, as I had done when I fell out of a tree. Just saw the grass coming towards me then. Might as well enjoy the flight. And that wasn't too bad.

blue skies, wind blowing

in silver glass, wind in my clothes

a sparkle, wind rushing

in eyes of houses, wind in my hair

flickering, wind speeding

a darkening glimmer, wind inside of me

The landing, however …, well, it didn't hurt for long. Not me, anyway.


	4. Who I was

**Again, thanks for the lovely revi****ews. Also thanks if you have this on alert or are generally reading through and have reached this chapter. It feels good to know that some of you are interested in this. Feel free to let me know what you think anytime.**

Watching – who I was

Stella shifts through the pictures again. No blue skies on them. No trees, no windows. Just the ground I hit, and me, or rather, my body. I look out the window. Just a bit of sky there, but it's not blue. Not today.

"Considering the amount of alcohol in her system she may not have been able to judge correctly what was happening." I hear Mac's voice.

"I hope so." Stella replies.

Somehow I think that's not just because it could help prove that I didn't commit suicide. Mac lets his hands glide down Stella's arms.

"So, what's next?"

Stella gathers the pictures and papers back together and pushes them into the file.

"I'll try to talk to Mrs. Starr again, and have a look at Coralie's room."

Mac looks at his watch. "I've got an appointment in about an hour. Give you a lift?"

"Mac!" she lightly raises her eyebrows, "It's not exactly like it's on the way."

"It's not exactly like it's _out _of the way either, so?" He cocks his head at her.

_Oh boy, does he look cute when he does that._

"You're cute." she grins, and so do I.

"I guess that means yes." he joins us.

They walk out of the room, him gently leading her with his hand on her back.

We drive along, mainly in silence. Again I try to catch glimpses of the sky. Not easy on the streets of New York. I remember when we moved here. The first drive from the airport, inching our way through half of Manhattan. I had thought it took longer than the flight.

The houses had seemed to bend over me. Weaving a cage of concrete. Until I discovered that I could climb them. And on many days the sky is not as grey as the houses. Actually, it never is. It's never just plain grey; hundreds of shades of ash, silver and pearl shifting, like waves across the sky.

Stella gets out of the car in front of our house. The ringing of the door bell is heard somewhere in a faint distance. So many times we weren't sure whether it was ours or that of a neighbor. That's why I got my own key right away. For me it was the key to freedom, I could come and go whenever I wanted. Just as I had done before.

My mother opens the door. She looks haggard and bitter. I can't help running my fingers along the lines that have marked the event on her face. Like cracks running through dried-out earth, begging for the soothing of tears.

We sit down in the living room. There's room for three on our couch. My mother shifts uneasily, no longer able to appreciate its comfort. Stella's hand is on her arm again.

"Mrs. Starr. I need to ask you a few questions about Coralie's past. I hope it will help us to find out what has happened."

My mother nods, unable to maintain eye contact. She tries to huddle together, perched on the edge of the cushions.

"You moved to New York two years ago?"

"Yes," my mother's voice sounds like a frightened bird's, "we came from Madrid. My husband had been offered a job here. Coralie loved Madrid. She loved the parks there; some are almost like being in the country. She loved sneaking outside at night …"

I nod. Stella nods, encouraging my mother to continue.

"But I think after the first shock she began to like New York as well."

I nod again.

"Weren't you worried about her leaving the house at night?"

"Not in Madrid. Everybody is out on the streets at night; the parks were teeming with children. We were of course concerned when we came here, but it is a nice neighborhood, people look out for each other. And she was always careful, and we always knew where she went."

This is why my mother found me. She knew where to look.

"May I ask where your husband is?"

My mother nods, the movement jerking all the way through her body. "The job he has now got involves a lot of traveling. He's been sent to Mexico and couldn't get a flight back. Please don't think he doesn't care …"

Stella's hand folds tighter around my mother's arm. "I don't. There is one more thing I need to ask. We heard Coralie had to go to a different school in the middle of the school year. Can you tell me why?"

"From the beginning we had the feeling Coralie wasn't happy in that school. She seemed to have problems with the other pupils."

That is one way to put it. I think those so called class-mates of mine would have invented bullying if it hadn't already existed. Since it did exist, they perfected it.

"Did she talk about what happened?" Stella's voice probes gently.

I can tell what this leads her to be thinking again. And I understand it. Yes, I was dead unhappy. But one day I overheard two boys from my class saying that it would be cool if I killed myself over bad marks, or anything else, for that matter. And I thought no way am I going to make them happy! I got to switch school, and if I didn't want to kill myself then, why should I have done so now?

"Not really. It was the teachers who suggested she should leave. Apparently she was disrupting the lessons."

Oh yeah, I was the one who kept the others from learning, because all they could think of was how to harass me.

"Do you think she really did?" Stella's voice is so soft she seems to know the answer, only asking so my mother can voice it.

"I know she did the day before we took her out."

Oh no, she's going to tell that story. If there were a mirror here I could probably tell if ghosts can blush. I feel like I am anyway.

Again Stella encourages my mother to continue.

"Some of the boys had found a little kitten. They tied it in a bag and kicked it about. Coralie got so angry."

Angry? I threw a regular little tantrum, so much so I broke my own finger. I still regret the trouble I caused them.

"I wish I had told her then how proud I was of what she had done."

I blink.

I feel like ghosts can cry.


	5. Where I lived

**I loved all the wonderful reviews I've got so far. Feel free to add more anytime. Also very happy if you have this or me on alert or as a favorite, all very much appreciated! :)**

Watching – Where I lived

My mother looks down, studying the pattern on the carpet. Stella's hand is still on her arm, a gentle pressure. Stella's eyes – seem to be looking at me. I wish they knew that I'm still here, that I can see and hear and feel them ….

My mother leads the way to my room. A sign on the door: '¡Esto es mi habitación, mi desorden, y mi problema!' I grin. I see a soft smile on Stella's face. I think she understands.

My mother knocks softly. Her knuckles rest on the wood, her forehead next to them.

"I … I'm sorry. I haven't been inside since … since …" she holds a shivering breath.

Stella nods. She eases my mother away from the door, with her hands and her words. Only Stella and I enter. I look around. Somehow – it looks different. Like coming back after weeks of holidays, only more so.

My bed with the cover thrown rather loosely over it. I think with a few crinkles it's more comfortable, when I was younger it had reminded me of my grandmother. The pillow is placed in a corner of the bed, the stuffed dragon I got for my first birthday ducking into it. It looks lonely.

I remember a Spanish poem. ¿Tienen alma las cosas? I could probably find out now. If things have a soul …. I have often wondered if someone will care for my things when I'm gone, the same way I did. What the little things meant. Having gathered memories with every touch. A poster of a Peter Pan production, having premiered on the day I was born.

_You don't need wings to fly._ No, indeed. Kind of ironic that the fairy-dust was introduced later to keep little kids from launching themselves off balconies and other high things. But you don't need fairy-dust either to let your imagination fly. Whatever some people might tell you.

Fairy-dust … it glitters at me – but I can't remember why.

A collection of candles, different sizes, different shapes and shades of violet. Scattered amongst darkened crisp petals and buds of roses. For the nights I couldn't spend under the moon. Following the branches of trees, riding on them, a silhouette. Following the roots with my thoughts, down into the earth. Nourished by decay.

Stella's fingers stretch into my field of vision, color of moon and branches reversed. She runs a finger along the edge of the little table. A picture is snapped. My little arrangement stored in an artificial memory, but maybe not only ….

Next to it my jewelry box. I think of what's inside. Most of it I made myself, weaving glass beads, or bending wires. I zoom inside the box, but I'm not sure what I see is what is in there, or just my memory of it. _Open the box, please?_ I see Stella's finger resting on the lock. It's not really locked. She snaps it open, pulls out a necklace, holds it up to take a closer look. I smile, of all the things I had to leave that on top for her to find, a silver omega on a black velvet band.

But I'm interested in something else. I had silver eagle's claws holding a glass sphere. The person who gave it to me said that when the sphere falls from the claws' grip the owner of the pendant will die. I look at it, every single claw still in place, as well as the sphere. Not that I really did expect it to be otherwise, though I have seen such things work. I look at the dream catcher hanging over my bed. That would be a good example.

Stella moves on to my bookshelf. Rows and columns of books, stacked in all possible directions. Favorite ones on top or in front bulging with notes, of what I had thought of a scene or a phrase, and when. Addenda made with a new read-through. Stella leaves through them, gathers several and puts them aside.

A few steps over my rug. That feels different too. I look down at my feet. They seem to be touching it. I realize I'm not wearing any shoes. Did I take them off? Or did someone take them off me? I look a bit further up, I look at my arms. I realize I'm wearing my favorite dress. A dark brown cotton, with little bronze stars stitched in various places. I did not wear that the last time I left this room. I wonder if I will be buried in it.

My desk. Stella pulls open the drawers one after the other. The bottom one, my writing. She pulls out the notepads, opens the top one, words scribbled all over the place. I never wrote anything in any particular order, just snatched the thoughts whenever I could. I put my finger on one of the lines. _Dancing through colors._ I don't think Stella has noticed it. She turns the page before I notice. The paper moves through my finger. Like running it through sand, only more so, sand running through my finger.

Stella suddenly turns and faces me. I almost jump back. Then I hear it too. A faint scratching noise, somewhere behind me. We follow it. It comes from my closet. Stella opens the door, follows the sound to a box on the floor. No idea when I last opened it. Stella pulls off the lid. Inside, a butterfly, cautiously flapping its wings. Testing them.

Feeling a breath of light it lifts itself into flight, comes dancing towards me. And swerves, as if it knows that I'm there – yet not, not there enough to land on. It lands on the back of Stella's hand still holding the lid. I see her curls pulsing with every heartbeat as she holds her breath. Her pupils dilating I see the butterfly's colors dancing all around her.


	6. Where we go from here

**Many thanks to all those who have reviewed thus far****, and also to anyone who has this on favorite or alert, I'm very happy that there are some people interested in this. I'm very sorry the update took so long; I had to work out some things, well, and I hope it will work out now.**

Watching – Where we go from here

I breathe in slowly. I feel like I am breathing. Like atoms of oxygen sparkle around and inside of me. I don't need them anymore but still I feel them, I feel like I am breathing.

I look at Stella and I'm glad to see her breathing. Colors still seem to be dancing around her but I guess that's just my perception. It's no less beautiful and I allow myself to sink into it. Blinking when Stella blinks and gasps. I become aware that I have touched her.

Where the butterfly had been. It flutters around again. A seemingly erratic flight but I wonder … I feel it must have its rhythm, dancing to its own tune. Specks of dust the notes arranged on musical lines of sunbeams.

I see that Stella is following the dreamlike flight with her eyes too. Thoughts casting shadows in her irises. I realize what they may be. The butterfly settles on my windowsill. I suddenly wonder if it senses any difference in the sunlight after it has passed the glass. If it will ever get to know the difference. The thought weighs my head down. What if it is evidence for something?

I watch Stella get up and slowly move towards the window, into a shaft of light. Carefully she takes up the camera again and inching around she captures various perspectives of the butterfly. Photons, atoms of color banned onto film.

She opens the window; a breeze finds its way in and brushes over the butterfly's wings, through Stella's curls and through me. We watch the butterfly flutter away, a dazzling flicker of colors. Refractions of sunlight. Reflecting into me.

With a sigh Stella turns away from the window and back to the room. It feels so much like she's looking at me. But she doesn't see me. And I guess she doesn't hear me but I say it anyway. _Thank you._ Maybe she can feel it.

Stella lets her gaze wander through my room again. Over all those things that for her don't really have a meaning, other than that they can tell a part of my story. Things that she has to separate into two categories: possible evidence of something wrong in my life, and the rest. I'm not sure where she would draw the line but somehow I feel that she lingers, memories of her own linking to my belongings. And I feel that there are gaps in her life. I wish I knew how to fill them. I wish I knew how to fill the gap I know has been torn into my parents' life.

Stella's gaze rests on the things she has gathered to take along. Almost reluctantly she glances at her watch, as if in here even on her own she doesn't want to give the impression that time, seeming mundane, still matters. But I know what she's waiting for, or rather who. And I know that time matters very much. Being in the right place at the right time, or not. I wonder if I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Something definitely went wrong. I wish I'd remember what it was.

I wonder again why I am here, still here. Something seems to be weighing me down. Is it just that I want to know what happened, what went wrong? I think it can not be a feeling of guilt that I committed suicide though the notion does weigh me down, as if my heart were trying to pulse lead through me, my thoughts not sparks but of a black body. I wonder how I still feel my body but I guess it's the way I have always felt emotions somehow physically.

Maybe I'm still here because something went wrong and I have to set it right. Maybe it's because some people think that I may have killed myself. Or because of who has killed me. If so, I hope we can find him before he kills someone else. I hope that somehow I can help Stella find him.

I snap back to an awareness of my surroundings when Stella's cell rings. "Bonasera." she answers it. I hear a male voice on the other end. "Flack, hi … yeah, I had been wondering, so Mac's still busy … you can pick me up instead? That'd be great." Stella's glance trails over some of my things. "I believe I have gathered a bit more than I can really carry here … five minutes? Okay, I'll meet you outside." Stella snaps the phone shut and starts assembling the things she wants to take along.

Her words of goodbye to my mother make me wonder if I should stay here. But I can't bear to see my mother and not be able to reach her. I feel I can't do anything if I stay behind. So I step outside into the sun that seems to shine too brightly on my mother and quickly she withdraws into her gloom.

I guess the man standing next to the car must be Flack. I look into a pair of eyes as bright as the sky, blue from horizon to horizon. But I guess there can be clouds too, I see a trace of them when he notices the expression on Stella's face. Immediately he relieves her of the weight of my notebooks and other stuff and I see that he wishes he could lift more off her.

Stella joins me in the back because the passenger seat in the front is taken by a woman with long waves of dark hair and a warm smile shining from her eyes. I think she must be a detective like Flack, but both not CSIs like Stella. I sense something between them, the looks that they exchange. Something that reminds me of flan, one of my favorite desserts when we were in Spain, somehow a taste of comfort, somehow bittersweet, the perfect memory.

I miss it, and donuts too. True, I could have it here in New York as well but somehow it didn't taste the same. I don't know what it was, maybe just the air, but nothing compares to eating a donut on the beach with the sand and the sea salt sizzling over your skin in the breeze. I miss it. There is so much that I miss.

I wonder if it will always be like this now.

**Many thanks for reading. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. All comments are very welcome, for any chapter, any time, and always replied to if logged.**


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